


Only magic carries a man

by robokittens



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clothed Sex, Complicated Relationships, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, It's Not Gay If It's A — Oh Wait, M/M, Male Friendship, Multi, Non-Canonical Character Injury, Oral Sex, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24742126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: Francis tucked his head against Fitzjames' shoulder. There was nothing, then, keeping Fitzjames from looking James straight in the eye."What would you like?" he asked. "If it were you: what would you want?"If you were me, he didn't say, but it hung heavy in the air.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames/Sir James Clark Ross, Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 40
Kudos: 91





	Only magic carries a man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reserve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/gifts).



> playing fast and loose with both history and canon, lads, but then aren't we all?
> 
> for reserve, obviously, even if i was unclear on just why she'd prompted me. a giant thank you! to icicaille for all the help. (and the rest of you. you know who you are.)
> 
> warnings that didn't seem quite tag-worthy in the end notes.

He would never know the truth of it. That much James knew. He'd read the reports; he'd heard some tales; he had seen, with his own two eyes, Francis Crozier clad in Netsilik furs. Had seen him at Fitzjames' deathbed in the Netsilik camp, at Fitzjames' sickbed on board the _Enterprise_ ; and he saw him now, clinging to the wall at an Admiralty function, Fitzjames at his side. He knew that it was a miracle at all that they survived. He would never know, _could_ never know, what it was they went through.

He did not begrudge Fitzjames this: the bond he shared with Francis was not one to be envied. Hardships bred strange friendships, but theirs … that was something else entirely. They had been, together, to death's doorstep; they had crossed the threshold. That was not a bond any man would _wish_ to share with another.

From across the room, Fitzjames caught him looking. He raised a hand in greeting; with his white gloves on, no one could tell that he'd lost half of one finger, the tip of another. They'd been nearly blackened when James had had him brought aboard, Francis hovering at his side like an anxious nursemaid. James lifted his glass in response, brandy catching the light as he tipped it slightly toward Fitzjames. The man smiled politely and turned back toward Francis.

It seemed nearly impossible that they could still, after all this time, have things to say to one another. And yet —

"Dearest," Ann said.

He turned back to her, placing a hand on the small of her back to steady the both of them. "How are you faring?"

"I think _we_ are ready to go home," she said, smiling at him, one arm cradling her belly so gently, so naturally, it must have been more instinct than thought. He would never, he thought, tire of seeing her like this. He could never tire of seeing her at all. 

He raised an eyebrow, grinning back at her. "You would have me leave a party before Francis Crozier does?"

She laughed. "Things do change, I suppose. _Francis Crozier_ does not have a child on the way."

That startled a laugh from him. "No, no, he's not quite so fortunate as I." Hand still at her waist, he bent to kiss her softly, on the corner of her mouth. "I'll have someone fetch your cloak." 

"Still so good to me, after all these years," she teased. In the same tone: "And your Francis?"

James laughed. "He can find his own way," he assured her. "He's a more than capable navigator." But still, it echoed in his ears the whole way home: _Your Francis, your Francis, your Francis_.

— 

He knew, of course, that Francis and Fitzjames had taken lodgings together. A maid in the mornings, a cook in the evenings, Francis had told him, but otherwise — solitude. "I would say I've earned it," Francis had said, a wry sort of smile on his face; he'd never been one for the demands of society. So it wasn't a _surprise_ when Fitzjames opened the door when James knocked.

"Ross!" Fitzjames beamed at him. "So good to see you. Francis said you were stopping by, but he wasn't certain when — we're just sitting down for tea." He stepped aside and gestured for James to enter, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's useless for it, but I let him do it anyway; it makes him feel useful."

Nearly despite himself, James smiled as he followed Fitzjames down the hall; Francis did, indeed, have many charms, but James had never known laying a table to be amongst them. The room they entered into was well-lit and warm, the curtains open to bring in what light they could from the misty day.

It was getting deep into the afternoon, so of course there was no one else to do it, but it still struck James to see Francis setting the table.

"Set another place, will you?" Fitzjames said, and Francis nearly dropped a plate. His startled look morphed into a broad, genuine smile as he saw James.

"Stopping by unannounced, are we?"

"You said any time," James said, a matching smile on his own face. Francis shook his head as if unimpressed and disappeared into what was presumably the kitchen, coming back out with a steaming teapot and an extra place setting balanced neatly on a tray, which he deposited on the small table.

The meal itself was simple but satisfying: just tea and scones; Fitzjames seemed pleased when James complimented the china. The real pleasure, more so than the food, was to be here, with these men. 

Fitzjames was more subdued than James knew him to be, but then he'd been quieter since he came back, still warm and effusive but lacking his old bombast. And he was in his own home now, with no one to impress. It felt to James as if Fitzjames spoke to him with more than courtesy, with a genuine warmth: as though he were a true friend, as though they had known each other for years.

The time passed, the scones eaten; what was left of the tea grew cold. "I suppose we'd better —" Francis began, but Fitzjames cut him off.

"Allow me," he said, smiling softly. He loaded the dishes back onto the tray, his own and then James', and James could not help but notice how easily he handled things, despite the missing fingers. It seemed to have not thrown him off-balance at all; he remained as graceful as he'd ever been. He watched as Fitzjames rounded the table to where Francis sat.

"James," Francis protested, but it sounded half-hearted. The argument sounded well-worn; Francis did not so much as push out his chair. "You know you don't have to —"

"What, should we leave it all for the maid tomorrow? Don't be ridiculous." His tone in rebuttal was as fond as Francis' had been in protest, and he placed a placating hand on Francis' shoulder even as he leaned over him to grab his plate. Francis reached up and rested his own fingers, briefly, atop Fitzjames'. He seemed not even to know he'd done it.

There was a small smile on his face, and a matching one on Fitzjames. The latter finished loading up his tray and bustled off to the kitchen.

James was unsure what look was on his own face, but whatever it was caused Francis to scowl at him: it was a self-conscious glare, defensive rather than angry, and James felt a wave of relief to realize he still knew Francis' face after all these years.

"James." His name was a low growl in Francis' mouth, a sort of warning.

"You're not young anymore, Francis," James said quietly. He wished he still had his tea, a brandy, anything to distract from this conversation. Anything to keep him from having to look Francis in the eye. 

There was no denying what he saw when he could avoid his friend's gaze no longer.

"No," Francis said, not sternly but plainly. "I'm not."

James did not stay too much longer after that. Fitzjames was a gracious host, but James could not be certain what his face betrayed; he could barely look at Francis for fear of seeing it reflected there. He hailed a hansom home.

He knew what a besotted Francis looked like; indeed, though he had not realized it until after the fact, he had been the recipient of just such affections before, on that long winter voyage. He had spent the time dreaming of Ann, and Francis had spent the time — well, James had thought nothing of it. He had not realized the things they'd done had carried more weight for Francis.

It was hardly unheard of, and they'd been two young men of equal standing, far from home. Far from home and all they loved, save — no. James had loved it there, the thrill and the hardships alike, and he held no doubt Francis had, as well. But a caring touch was hard to come by, those four years. He had no shame in what they'd done; had told Ann about it, in fact. She'd merely teased him, asked him if Francis Crozier was her competition. He had said no, and meant it, and kissed her soundly.

— 

Francis uncorked the bottle with a small, pleased smile. He poured James a glass and then poured a second, making an elaborate show of swirling the glass around, sniffing it deeply — Fitzjames was laughing at this point — before finally taking the tiniest possible sip.

"Passable," he said, trying to reign his smile in, and handed the glass to Fitzjames, who laughed yet harder. James could not deny that he was … endeared by them. Fitzjames, it seemed, brought things out of Francis that James had not seen for so long: laughter, joy. He'd nearly given them up for dead before Francis had even left for the Arctic.

It was a sobering thought, despite the cheerful mood, and James tried to shake it off; Francis was here, hale and … to all appearances, happy. Perhaps more than happy.

He followed them to the sitting room, taking a chair at an angle to the sofa Fitzjames deposited himself on. Francis went to stoke the fire. Once he had it burning to his satisfaction, he sat on the very sofa Fitzjames occupied, and far nearer than he needed to. He leveled a look at James, and when James nodded back he relaxed visibly. 

It seemed James had passed some test. He felt himself nearly offended — had Francis thought this, of all things, could come between them? — but also, in no small measure, relieved. 

James spoke of Ann's condition, of the other children ("Ella, near ten," Francis said quietly, disbelievingly, shaking his head. James knew well the feeling, how quickly time passed on land while one was off on the eternal seas), of the miserable time they'd had getting the chairs back from the upholsterers. 

Fitzjames countered with his travails with the glovemaker preceding his reintroduction to society — "Could you believe it, he wanted to _cut the fingers short_!" — and by the time he'd finished they were all three laughing merrily. Fitzjames gesticulated once more with the hand in question, and then settled it on Francis' thigh.

James felt something loosen in his chest at the sight. He got up long enough to pour them each another glass of wine before sinking back down in his chair.

"Look at us!" Fitzjames said merrily, gesturing to himself and then to James, and to Francis in between them. "A pair of regular bookends. A set of Jameses for Francis."

Francis grumbled something, but though he sounded displeased as ever his ears turned slightly pink.

"Although," Fitzjames mused, "I suppose for us to be proper bookends, you'd have to come closer. Too much space on the shelf, as it were. Can't keep him up like this."

"Oh, no," James demurred. "I couldn't possibly —" He'd meant only to be polite, but it sounded to his own ears somehow coy.

Francis looked near-mutinous, but Fitzjames laughed. "Oh, come on, there's plenty of room."

James put his wine down on the end table and made his way over to the sofa; he was very nearly seated when Fitzjames reached out and caught his wrist.

"Only," Fitzjames said thoughtfully. "Only there's one thing."

Those fingers traced their way up his sleeve, rounded his shoulder, sat warm against his neck. "This is what you've come here for, isn't it," Fitzjames said, not quite a question, as his hand made its final ascent to James' cheek and pulled him in, leaning over Francis, for a kiss.

"James," Francis said, strangled, and in that moment James could not know which of them he meant.

Fitzjames' lips were thin and firm against his own, nothing like Ann's dear plush mouth, but they opened against his own just as sweetly. His fingers pressed against James' face and then retreated, taking his mouth with them.

James could do nothing but gape at Fitzjames as he settled himself back into his seat, back against Francis' side.

"James," Francis said. His voice was nearly a croak when embarrassed, his neck flushed red; it was good to see that, whatever else had changed during his long years away, in these regards Francis had remained the same.

Fitzjames smiled serenely at him before turning his attentions to James. "Is it not?" he asked again, and James could feel the beginning of a flush on his own face.

"I couldn't," James began. He found himself unsure how to continue. " _We_ couldn't — It wouldn't be —"

"Hang the law," Fitzjames said, with surprising fervor given the thought had scarcely crossed James' mind. "Hang _decorum_. Is this not what you want?"

"My Ann —" James said, but he could hear the weakening resolve in his own voice. "And in her delicate state, I —"

"And what," Francis said. It was the first thing he had said that was not their shared name in what felt like ages. He cleared his throat. "What if you did not touch."

James looked at Francis' face, his dear face, only so recently returned to him; he looked at the heat in Francis' eyes and the way Fitzjames' hand lay on Francis' thigh. Fitzjames' head was ducked slightly, his hair obscuring his face, but James could see enough of it to know that, quite in contrast to Francis, there was something like _fear_ in those eyes behind the cocksure expression.

"I think she would be just fine with that," he said finally. "And I think … I think I would like it. I think I would like it very much."

Fitzjames' expression melted swiftly from relief into happiness and then a sort of diabolical glee. "I think you will as well," he said, and put those selfsame fingers that had adorned James' cheek onto Francis', tilting it toward him.

It was — _avarice_ , nearly, with which Fitzjames claimed Francis' mouth. Passion. Francis gripped Fitzjames' shoulders; James thought he heard Francis moan into the kiss. He wondered how long it had been going on, this thing between them — surely not while the ships still sailed, but begun while stuck in the pack, perhaps? Forged in the Netsilik camp, where Fitzjames lay nearly dying? A surprising and tender thing, once back on English soil?

They kissed, he thought, like newlyweds.

He made to rise — not to leave, but merely to return to his chair, to give them space. Francis' hand landed on his knee. It was not a strong grip: Francis' attentions were enough diverted that James was shocked he'd noticed the movement, much less been able to find James without looking. But there was no doubting the meaning. 

Francis' other hand curled around Fitzjames' neck even as they broke apart, panting into each other's mouths for a moment before Francis tucked his head against Fitzjames' shoulder. There was nothing, then, keeping Fitzjames from looking James straight in the eye.

"What would you like?" he asked. "If it were you: what would you want?"

_If you were me_ , he didn't say, but it hung heavy in the air. James watched as Francis took a deep, steadying breath where he pressed against Fitzjames. 

"I …" James faltered. What _would_ he want? Any number of things, surely: he had kissed Francis, but in jest, never as deeply or with such meaning as Fitzjames kissed him now. He would like that. He would like to _have done_ that. He would not begrudge the feel of Francis' mouth elsewhere, either: they had done it merely once, but James still recalled it keenly, Francis' hand gripping his knee not unlike the way it was now, his mouth warm and slick around James' cock. He had been … he had seemed embarrassed, afterward; James had nearly had to cajole him into letting him reciprocate even in part, Francis' cock thick and pulsing in his hand. 

It had otherwise been only that: fumblings in dark and awkward places, rutting against one another, hands pawing at each other in a sort of affectionate desperation. Never — never anything more than that. Certainly never _sodomy_ , although James couldn't help but imagine it now, Fitzjames with his head thrown back, his long neck on display as Francis moved within him.

He realized he'd pictured them face-to-face, as man and wife were: was it even possible, for two men to fit together in that way? He realized it was not the first time he'd thought of them as _wed_.

His mouth had gone dry, open without his leave or notice. Fitzjames was staring at him with a sort of good-natured impatience; perhaps James had been in his own thoughts too long. Although it seemed Fitzjames was not entirely waiting for instruction, if the way Francis' breath had gone harsh enough for James to hear was any indication; James could not quite bring himself to look directly, but the gentle motion of Fitzjames' shoulder implied he had taken matters — indeed, had taken Francis — in his own hand.

"I would," James began, and again paused. Though Fitzjames had set no parameters, he was unsure what was on offer; he would not mean to offend. "Your mouth," he said finally. "Francis … your mouth."

It was not the clearest statement, but when Francis raised his head and turned enough to smile at him, James knew his meaning had come through clear enough. The memory, it would seem, was as vivid for Francis as it was for James.

Francis squeezed his knee again and then kissed Fitzjames once more, sweet this time but long and lingering. James pulled his eyes away, and then let them return: this was theirs, but it was also for him.

Francis rose from the couch, Fitzjames' hands fluttering over him as if unsure where to grasp. Francis picked up one of his hands — the injured one — and pressed a kiss to the back of it. He used it then to tug at Fitzjames.

Fitzjames resituated himself from the sprawl he'd fallen into under the force of Francis' kisses until he was sitting upright, only far from James that they were not pressed together. He regarded James with a curious expression, and though when he spoke it was too softly for James to be sure what he was hearing, it sounded like _I wish you could_. 

It seemed perhaps that Fitzjames would move to touch him, one hand poised in the air, but that hand then dropped then to one of his spread knees — between which Francis sat back on his own heels, waiting patiently with a look of quiet amusement. "James," Francis said, quietly, but not without a degree of force behind it, and then his mouth softened into a true smile: they must have both responded. James had, certainly; he could feel the stiffening of his spine, his eyes focusing on Francis' face.

James could not hear, either, what it was that Francis said as he leaned in and began to unfasten Fitzjames' trousers, could only watch as Fitzjames smoothed a hand through Francis' hair in what seemed a distracting fashion, if the way Francis paused in his work was any indication. Fitzjames shifted, just enough for Francis to slide his trousers down, enough to move his own shirttails out of the way.

He was not quite erect, but not far from it, and even James, inexperienced in these matters, could not deny it was a lovely specimen. Francis, certainly, seemed appreciative, eyes sliding shut as he rubbed his cheek against Fitzjames' inner thigh, putting James in mind of an overly-familiar cat.

"Francis," Fitzjames said, a breathy protest. James could barely look at him beyond his straining cock, beyond the way Francis' hands wrapped around his calves just above where his trousers pooled around his feet. When Francis took the head into his mouth, James startled nearly as though it were his own. One of Fitzjames' hands was a fist on his own knee, the other on Francis' neck; not directing, but merely touching. Holding on.

James had never seen the act from this angle before, never had occasion to watch the workings of anyone's — of _Francis'_ — mouth with any degree of detachment, little as he may have been able to muster. The way Francis swallowed; the flare of his nostrils; the way his mouth became more red, more plush, as he worked his way down Fitzjames' length. The way the muscles of Fitzjames' thighs twitched. Fitzjames' hand had made its way from Francis' neck to his hair, carding through the thin strands, and James had to fight back the urge to cover Fitzjames' hand with his own.

Not to displace. Only: to meet him there.

When he looked at Fitzjames' face, he half-expected to find him looking back, but his eyes were shut, teeth set into his lower lip. His head tipped back, and James wanted to trace over the tendons of his throat. With his tongue, he barely let himself think; the desire to draw his fingers across Fitzjames’ Adam's apple was damning enough.

He had … not expected Fitzjames, somehow, in this. Had expected, if anything, to imagine himself in the man's place, to imagine himself in Francis' capable hands, in Francis' capable _mouth_. But Fitzjames' hair on his shoulders shone in the firelight, and James flushed at the sight of his veins through his skin, the broad knuckles of his clenched hand; it took all of James' power to not touch him.

In all the time James had known him, Francis' affections may have been unappreciated, but they were certainly never _undeserved_. It seemed they were neither, now.

Francis groaned, the sound muffled by Fitzjames' cock. James could _see_ it — the way Fitzjames' organ filled inside Francis' mouth, how Francis had to work for it now. He had moved his hands; they clutched now at Fitzjames' thighs. Fitzjames' own grip on Francis' hair had tightened: it was scarcely long enough for Fitzjames to grasp at, but he seemed to manage. He was — he was helping to move Francis' head now, no uncouth shoving of himself down Francis' throat, but a gesture that seemed somehow tender. Possessive, but … knowing.

Fitzjames knew Francis, that was obvious, knew him _well_. Beyond the obvious, the physical. Knew him, perhaps, better than James had known him, through all the long late nights and close quarters and plaintive letters. Better, perhaps, than anyone had. And truly: in all the time he had known Francis, the man had always kept himself to some degree apart. James had borne it at the time, understanding of Francis' fear of censure, of judgement. 

But maybe, he thought now, watching Francis methodically working Fitzjames over, working to bring him toward crisis with a skill that could be born only of long practice — maybe Francis had been saving that part of himself.

"Francis," Fitzjames said urgently. "Francis, I —" 

The fist he'd held pressed to his knee unfolded, reaching blindly out — not _for_ James, assuredly. He could not — _dared_ not pretend it was such a thing. But he could not keep himself from taking the liberty, from taking Fitzjames' hand in his own. 

Fitzjames choked out another sound, incoherent, one hand tightening convulsively in Francis' hand, the other in James' grip, no less strong for his injury. James squeezed it back and watched, enthralled, as Francis swallowed around Fitzjames' length … and swallowed, and swallowed. Fitzjames' hand, encased in his own, shook slightly. Francis pulled off of Fitzjames so slowly it seemed almost cruel, if the way Fitzjames' body strained was any indication; he looked as if he could not decide if he wanted to move toward Francis or away. 

The decision, in the end, was made for him, as Francis rose unsteadily from his knees and propped himself up on the back of the sofa as he leaned over Fitzjames, nearly covering him, kissing him soundly. This, finally, was the thing that James found himself shocked by: that Fitzjames would … would allow this, the taste of himself and of his seed surely on Francis' lips, in his mouth. The soft sounds Fitzjames was making as they kissed, the way that his hand tightened even further on James' — he seemed like he not only allowed it, but _enjoyed_ it. Savored it.

His grip on James' hand loosened, and then his hand slipped free entirely. James managed to turn his gaze away from where their mouths softly met and softly parted, and watched as Fitzjames cupped Francis' arousal through his trousers. And Francis … _was_ aroused, had _become_ aroused, from his mouth on Fitzjames' cock. Had liked doing it as much as Fitzjames had liked receiving his … attentions.

James was aware, all at once, of his own arousal, and felt simultaneously grateful and distressed that neither man was even looking at him. The needs of his own body were secondary here, and he could not resent it. Not when he was being given leave to witness this.

There was enough room, if barely, between James and Fitzjames for Francis to climb onto the sofa, his knees on either side of Fitzjames, the one pressing against James' thigh. James took a deep, steadying breath and forced himself to focus elsewhere — on the fire burning across the room. Anywhere other than the men next to him. Anything to give him a moment to regain his breath, his composure. To pretend he could not _feel_ them.

It was a mistake, when he finally looked back. Fitzjames had drawn Francis from his trousers and was steadily working him over, long fingers wrapped around him. It was the hand that James had held — his maimed hand, the shortened fingers as graceful as the rest of them. 

James thought again about that night in Antarctica, the shame on Francis' face warring with the passion, how he had pulled Francis close and made his way through all the layers that had separated them.

It seemed almost as though the scene in front of him were a mockery of that night, the acts the same but the meaning behind them so very different. There was nothing separating Francis from Fitzjames now. Nothing.

He wondered, watching Francis press his gasping mouth to Fitzjames' neck, watching the possessive sprawl of Fitzjames' hand on Francis' back, the intensity with which Fitzjames coaxed pleasure from Francis' cock — he wondered if _love_ was a word they used. Did they greet each other with it in the morning and whisper it at night, as he and Ann did?

Francis did not say _love_ , then — he did not say anything, but only cried out, wordless, as Fitzjames brought him at last to his climax. Francis sank into Fitzjames, lax, sated; Fizjames kissed the top of his head as tenderly as any kiss James had ever seen. 

"Francis," Fitzjames said softly, and then again, more urgently: " _Francis_."

Francis lifted his head with a slightly abashed expression, then produced from his pocket a handkerchief with which Fitzjames cleaned off his hand. James had … scarcely noticed that Fitzjames’ fingers had been coated in Francis' release, but he found he could not look away as Fitzjames cleared the shine off every digit. He certainly could not look away when Francis retrieved the handkerchief, folded it neatly and replaced it in his pocket, took back that very hand and pressed a kiss to its palm.

In the silence that followed, James began rapidly to feel, as he perhaps should have felt this whole time, that he was — an intruder here, upon this moment. Upon this night, upon this home, upon these _people_. He was unsure how to make a graceful exit.

Francis spared him the pain, then — distracted him from his own thoughts by clambering off of Fitzjames with a very different sort of groan than those he had been making earlier.

"You're unkind to an old man," he grumbled, and while his unconvincing glare was leveled at Fitzjames, for James he had only a devilish smirk. _Did you like that?_ it seemed to say, Francis' voice self-satisfied inside James’ head as he had not heard in years.

"I would never," Fitzjames protested. "I have never been _anything_ but kind to you."

The unimpressed look on Francis' face was more sincere this time, eyebrow raised pointedly.

"It's hardly my fault if you couldn't _see_ it!" Fitzjames exclaimed. "If you hadn't been so bloody _stubborn_ —"

Francis shook his head, losing the battle at keeping the smile from his face. He held a hand out to Fitzjames, who took it, pulling himself upright; he shook his head and his hair fell, somehow, neatly back into place. He looked at once entirely dignified, save that his trousers were around his ankles. The man himself noticed after just a moment, but somehow the smile on his face as he righted himself was more one of boyish mischief than any sort of embarrassment or remorse. 

James could not say what was on his own face, other than that whatever it was caused a great, tender warmth in Francis' eyes. "I hope that wasn't too awful, dear friend," he said, and extended his hand to James, pulling him up into an embrace.

Francis was solid in James' arms, a comfort; neither sad nor lonely, and not the hardened, scarred man who had fought his way out of the Arctic. James' friend, but not merely that. "Never awful," James said sincerely. He did not forget — could not forget — to what Francis referred, but it hardly mattered in this moment. 

Or, not quite that: it mattered only in that Francis had chosen to share this moment with him. Had given him this. It seemed dramatic, nearly foolish, to call it a _gift_ ; but while he had no doubt the images would stay with him for a long time, and perhaps be called upon again, it was the feelings it engendered that James would tuck in his pocket.

"Come over," he said impulsively as he stepped from Francis' embrace. Fitzjames turned to look at him, a curious expression on his face. "Not — not tonight, perhaps, but do come over. Ann would love to see you, and the children — _both_ of you. Come for dinner."

Francis looked at Fitzjames, and something seemed to pass between them without words. "Of course," Francis said, gruff enough to indicate he'd expressed enough emotion for the day. "We'll send word."

"And … do stop by again," Fitzjames said, smiling. He stepped nearer and placed a hand on James' shoulder, warm and familiar. "We would love to have you. Any time."

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: sexy bits happen after a couple drinks, but not enough (imo) to impair anyone's judgement; similarly, there are some protests made to said sexy bits but they're not very heartfelt so (also imo) there is no coersion. jcr wouldn't consider this cheating on his wife but ymmv there. there's a bit of ... very ... nice ... homophobia? honestly unsure what the term is for someone having an epiphany about how great the gays are, actually.


End file.
